


Come From Way Above

by dynamicsymmetry



Series: Pacify [11]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Choking, F/M, Facials, Female Ejaculation, Masturbation, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, playful pretense at sorta dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:49:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3444341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamicsymmetry/pseuds/dynamicsymmetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baby, it's cold outside, so let's return to the Infamous Toolshed where everything began for some absolutely filthy sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come From Way Above

**Author's Note:**

> This is Pacify somewhat back to basics. Less formal D/s. More… Well. You’ll see. 
> 
> First look at [this gifset.](http://dynamicsymmetry.tumblr.com/post/112140670201/that-glare-and-that-arm) Now put on [this song.](https://youtube.com/watch?v=hbe3CQamF8k) It’s required.

It's winter.

Doesn’t mean they can’t find some heat.

She’s gotten soft. Smooth. She’s like fluid; she flows under his hands, lets him redirect her, build her into waterways and the course of rivers. He pushes her down, holds her down, ties her down, but it’s not even like he has to; he could and does order her to lie still and she does, and he orders to do any number of other things and she does, as best she can. She obeys him. She’s his good girl. For the most part.

She likes that. Loves it. More than loves it; for whatever reason - and she still doesn’t entirely understand this and doesn’t think she really has to - she needs it.

But she isn’t going to forget where she came from.

~

Figures they’d end up back here, in the coldest days of the year.

It’s cold out; it’s cold in here too. There’s no heat, of course; it’s a fucking toolshed, why would there be? Ordinarily she wouldn’t even have any reason to be in here at all, but they did get a snowfall the night before, just a light one, and while they can probably wait for it to melt, she still thinks it makes sense to head in, get a couple of the shovels she knows are in there. Just take care of the most well-traveled paths and sidewalks.

She opens the door and he grabs her.

Later she’ll wonder how long he was waiting in there, how he knew she was coming. She’ll wonder and she’ll know it doesn’t matter. He was there and he knew, and now he’s dragging her back against him with an arm around her shoulders, close to her throat, painfully strong. She fumbles at him, at his forearm - far more instinct than actual fear or even surprise, because though this hurts and though she can feel, as always, that he could snap her like a twig if he wanted to, by now he knows just how much pressure is at the edge of too much.

By now he knows just how to manhandle her. 

This is familiar. Very. Except he’s controlled, always very controlled now, violence always tempered when there is any. With intention. With a plan. So she’s hauled against his chest and he’s so hot in the chill, and as she exhales steam and he shoves his hips against her she can feel his cock hard and high against her ass.

This isn’t going to be like normal. She can tell. This is going to be different. She remembers. How she had to push him. Push him until he broke. She knows what this is, what he wants, without him having to say anything.

But his fingers touch her lips. Just a fraction of a moment where it’s all suspended. And she nods. She was never going to do anything else. She’s already flushed, already wet, and she _wants_ this.

_Remember._

He smiles against the back of her neck and starts to yank at her clothes.

She struggles. She fights him. She wriggles in his grip, breathing hard, and he could stop her but he’s giving her just enough slack that she can make a go of it. He doesn’t want her fluid, he doesn’t want that quiet strength this time. Okay, so she’s fighting him?

He _wants_ her to fight.

He has her coat off before she manages to slip free of him, and she makes it a few feet away before she realizes he’s not coming after her and turns. There’s only the one window, small and cobwebby, and the only light it admits is muddy and dim. So he’s little more than a shape, but she can see enough and it’s like a slingshot back to the past, to that summer day months and months and forever ago. He’s looming in the dark, so much larger than he is even outside this moment, and as he shrugs off his own coat and lighter jacket - unhurried, because he doesn’t have to hurry, because she isn’t going _anywhere,_ because if she went for the door now he’d never let her hand touch the handle - the look on his face sends a violent shiver through her. A fist closing around her spine and shaking her.

He’s smiling without smiling. Hair hanging in his eyes. She can’t see them clearly but she can feel them, how he’s looking at her. Like she never would have expected before all this. Back when they were tentative, when they were careful, when they were still just starting to learn each other.

He’s looking at her a little like he wants to rip her apart.

That gentleness is still there beneath it. It’s never going away. She knows that. She’s not afraid. To him she’s precious and she always will be.

But he knows by now that she won’t break.

She takes a few steps back. This is not a big place. There’s nowhere to go. She does want to run, she wants to make him chase her. Hunt her down. This is new but it’s also not; this was here from the beginning, before all that soft ruthlessness - something bestial and wild. Back when his hand first found her throat and she understood she trusted him that much, and he learned to trust himself.

She lets out a shuddering breath and licks her lips, and it’s all she can do to keep her hands from pushing between her own legs.

_Come get me._

He starts forward. Still with that Look. He’s still wearing the gray tank he had under everything and she can’t stop looking at his arms, what she knows they can do. Until he speaks, and then she can’t stop looking at his face.

Growl. Syllables cut off like the edges of knives.

"Strip. Or I’m gonna rip it all off you."

She knows he’s not just saying that. She actually whimpers as she drops her hands to the hem of her sweater, pulls it over her head and lets it fall, and then it’s just a light tee over bra over skin.

He steps closer, head down, looking just a bit like he might be about to charge, and she realizes she’s not going fast enough. She sucks in a breath and her hands are shaking when she pulls off her shirt, and it’s cold, her skin tightening into waves of goosebumps, but she doesn’t feel it.

Shit, he’s close. Could reach out and seize her by the arm.

By the neck.

She lunges for the door.

She knows she won’t make it. She’s grinning as his arm hooks around her middle and drags her backward, and when one hand finds her breast and squeezes so hard it hurts, fingers digging into her flesh, his other hand closes over her throat and just for a second she can’t breathe at all.

"You gonna try that again?"

She shakes her head. She’s almost laughing. He sounds like he might be on the edge of doing that himself. She rolls her whole body back against him, practically undulating, and as once more she feels his cock she thinks a word she hasn’t let herself come near before, because part of her still just hasn’t been ready for that.

Apparently she is now.

_Slut._

God, she’s come so far. But a lot has happened.

She wants him to call her that. Suddenly, violently. She doesn’t even know why. It just feels right. It would feel so _good._ Hold her by the throat, shove his hand into her jeans and finger her, chuckle at how wet she is, call her a dirty little slut, hiss into her ear that she knows she wants it. Can’t get enough of it.

For half a second she’s actually thrown back by herself. Then his hand _is_ pushing under the waistband of her jeans, her panties, fingers rough on her clit, and the moan that forces its way out of her is hard and broken and pleased.

His teeth closing over the edge of her ear. Breath hot on her neck.

Okay, so he’s also come pretty far.

Then she’s fighting him again.

She claws at his arm, his fingers, trying to pry them loose, and he lets her do it, and when she’s gotten herself loose enough and gotten enough distance she ducks her head and bites down on the edge of his hand.  

Not hard. Hard enough.

He lets out a tight sound of surprise and pain - and she can tell that even this is more than half playing - and as she slips free and scrambles away from him she’s grinning like before, harder than before, getting her jeans the rest of the way open and ready to pull down her thighs.

She doesn’t head for the door. Not this time. This time she’s going for the worktable, knowing why and knowing _he’ll_ know why, and she just manages to get a hand on it before he has her again and pushes her against it sharply enough that she’s sure she’ll have a horizontal bruise running across her middle tomorrow.

So here they are again.

"God, you little bitch," he growls - almost snarls - and heat floods down into her cunt and she wonders how long this has actually been in him. How long it’s been in her. Whether she always wanted this, or whether…

She’s not going to do this now. Not when she’s this happy. Not when she’s pretty much about to soak through her jeans.

Which he’s jerking at, dragging down her thighs, rough enough with her panties that she hears them tear. She gasps, a gasp that’s almost a cry, and his hand slaps over her mouth, and then his fingers are doing that thing she’s loved since he first did it - forcing their way into her mouth, past her lips, heavy on her tongue. She sucks at them, greedy, and he breathes out a laugh as he yanks at her panties again.

"Do I gotta stuff these in here or you gonna be quiet for me?"

She nods, her tongue swirling. She tastes salt and herself and moans again, and even making the _sound_ is like a firm swipe across her clit. Like she’s one big nerve. Like everything he could do to her and everything she could do to herself is going to come back to this one thing.

She’s been here before, in this place in her head. But not like this.

"The fuck’s that mean?" His fingers withdraw, too fast, and she lets out another one of those broken little whimpers. She wanted them to stick around for a while. She was having fun.

"I’ll be quiet," she whispers, and just for a moment his hand is gentle, stroking against the curve of her ass, and she sighs.

This will always be here.

Then he slaps her, hard, and she lets out a little squeak that almost twists into a laugh. This will too.

"You fuckin’ better."

She half expects him to force her boots off, or make her take them off herself, strip her fully naked, but he doesn’t seem to care about that. He doesn’t even seem to care about her bra. He slides a hand under it as he pushes her jeans and panties the rest of the way down with his boot, gives her nipple a pinch and then a hard twist that sends sparks flickering all down her side and makes her bite her lip to keep from crying out, but then he has her by the throat again, two fingers driving hard enough into her cunt that it burns. He hooks them, pressing down in a rapid beckoning motion.

That’s when she _comes,_ all at once and so sharp and hard that for a moment she wonders if he’s hit her again.

And something happens then, something that utterly shocks her - the first thing here that truly has. He doesn’t let up, fingers her even harder as his thumb finds her clit, and she feels something _release_ deep in her, like a dam breaking, and she hears him gasp in that same shock as something gushes out of her, running hot down the insides of her thighs.

For a fraction of a second she’s almost sure she’s pissed herself.

But no. No, that is _not_ what this is.

"Don’t stop." It comes out in a harsh whine, half choked through the pressure of his hand. "Fuck, _Daryl,_ don’t stop don’t stop don’t-“

She didn’t ask him if she could. She doesn’t really think that’s her fault.

And he doesn’t stop.

It’s not like it’s ever been. It just keeps _going._ It doesn’t even feel like she’s coming anymore; it’s like she’s being beaten from the inside out, wave after wave of it, and she promised him she’d be quiet but she’s sobbing, things that might be his name but don’t quite make it. His hand slaps over her mouth again, and she needs him to fill her, fill her in both places, and she parts her lips and hooks one of his fingers into her with her tongue.

“ _Fuck,_ " he breathes, still shocked but now clearly well into the territory of delighted, and she thinks she basically agrees. A second finger with the first and he fucks them in and out of her, matches the rhythm of his fingers in her cunt, and every hope she had of remaining coherent flies out that tiny little cobwebby window and is gone forever.

She can barely keep herself up. In some ways this feels like the apotheosis of something. There was a line, there was a _before_ and there’s an _after_ and she’s in the latter, something beyond coming so close to dying, and she feels so fucking alive as he fucks her with his hands, holding her between them, and it’s freezing and she’s sticky with sweat and spit on her chin and whatever just flooded out of her, and she doesn’t think she’s ever felt so completely loved.

Not even when he’s holding her and telling her he does. That he loves her. That she’s everything. Or it’s not the same.

 _Slut_ , she thinks again, and Christ, she wants him to call her that, and she wouldn’t know how to ask even if she could. Which she can’t. And not just because he’s fucking her mouth with his fingers. So it’s a moot point.

God, she wants everything. She’s _hungry._

"Okay," he breathes, and suddenly the fingers in her cunt and mouth are gone and he pulls her jaw open, pushes his others past her lips to replace the ones he withdrew - and what she tastes is actually almost sweet. It is sweet. Faint. Like water with a touch of sugar. "Alright. You’re done."

Yes, she is.

He twists her arm up behind her back when he thrusts into her. Somehow the time between his fingers and his cock disappeared, bled into the liquid mess her brain has become, but when he does - hauls her back against him one with hand on her hip and uses the other to shove her down against the tabletop - she comes back to life and bucks against him, struggles, bright ache stabbing through her shoulder. Nothing hurts. Nothing can hurt. She doesn’t even know if she’s fighting him or trying to fuck him right back.

Very possibly there’s no difference.

She remembers how this was. Wood grain rough against her cheek, the leather against her wrists - the surprise of it, that he did it and how much she loved it. This is harder and sharper and rougher and so fucking good, and when grit digs into her cheekbone and jaw she lets out a little cry which isn’t even about that but which is instead about _everything,_ and he releases her hip and does what he did then, cups his hand over the back of her head and holds her down as he pounds into her.

She can’t be quiet. She can’t do that. It’s slightly muffled but it makes no real difference; she groans every time he thrusts into her, groans which are again almost cries. He’s doing the same thing - harsh, animal sounds through his teeth. Bared teeth.

She thinks about wolves.

He did hunt her. He hunted her and he caught her. He just didn’t have to try all that hard.

All at once he releases her, and she’s gasping, bewildered, trying to push herself up, when he takes her by the shoulders and spins her around, forces her to her knees. She already knows what’s coming, reaching for him, her lips parting, but he doesn’t give her a chance to do anything at all; he grips her head with both hands and hauls her in, and his cock is abruptly so deep and so hard that she gags.

She fumbles for his hip, curls her fingers over the waistband of his pants, accidentally pulls them further down his thighs. Gropes for him. He eases off, just a touch, but then he’s thrusting into her mouth, just shallow enough but still deeper and harder than he ever has. She holds onto him because she has to, her eyes watering; she could still fight him if she wanted to, if she wanted to play that game, but instead - when she manages to get control enough of her own body, she digs her nails into his hip and tries to hook him in and her other hand plunges between her thighs, her fingers working frantically at herself.

” _Fuck,_ " he hisses, "fuck, Beth, _fuck,_ " and when she looks up at him all she sees is this dark shape towering over her, powerful and huge.

Using her.

If she could smile with his cock filling up her mouth, she would.

He jerks away from her so hard she almost falls, though her fingers on her clit barely falter. His hand is still tangled in her hair and he yanks her head back, her face up to him. His other hand is wrapped around himself, jerking, and she stares at it. She’s entranced. She’s not even sure where she is anymore. It’s all hazy, all those cobwebs in that window tangled around her, everything a chaos of heat and cold, and she’s white-hot and vibrating and coming again, her mouth open in a yell that’s nearly a snarl of her own as his come spills hot onto her tongue and cheek and chin.

And everything just… stops.

For a moment.

His hand slips away from her and she drops sideways, catching herself on one hand, her pants still tangled around her ankles. She’s all off-kilter. Dazed. One hand lifts to her face, feels a slick mess of come and spit and tears from gagging.

The floor is cold. She’s very vaguely aware of that.

She’s also aware that she’s not sure when she last felt quite this good in quite this way.

"Beth?" Hand on her jaw, coaxing her to look at him. She does, blinking; he’s not really in focus, but she can see enough of him, and she smiles, loose and completely fucked out. She’s a total wreck.

She’s guessing that’s making him happy.

He touches her lips. Soft. She nods and when he speaks next she can hear him smiling. Just a little.

"You gotta get up, you’re gonna fuckin’ freeze to death."

 _I’m okay,_ she tries to say, but what comes out isn’t really words. He wipes at her face with something - the jacket he was wearing, maybe - arm around her and pulling her closer to his heat. She sags, mostly boneless. Yeah, she does have to get up. Soon. At some point.

A pounding at the door. She looks up sharply, abruptly aware, and he looks back at her, and for a moment there’s silence.

Then more pounding, and - clearly annoyed - “Guys, what the fuck.”

Glenn. She’s pretty sure.

She dissolves into loud, almost hysterical giggles, covering her mouth with her hand but not successfully muffling anything.

"You have a _bed_ for this.”

"Fuck off, Glenn," she calls, sounding bizarrely self-possessed even through the giggling, like she _hasn’t_ just been fucked half unconscious, like Daryl _didn’t_ just get through using her like - okay, yes, she’s going there at this point - a cheap whore, and when she next looks at him Daryl is laughing too, pulling her in again and shaking his head as he combs his fingers into her damp hair.

"You guys are unbelievable. Look, we actually do need the shovels."

"We’ll bring ‘em out. Do like the girl says." He grins against her forehead. And yes, they will; she’s really starting to shiver now, the last of the heat bleeding out of her. But for the moment she’s just going to feel this, really _feel_ it, and she’s not apologizing to anyone. She doesn’t _owe_ that to anyone.

"Y’alright?" She already told him, told him without telling him, but she knows he has to ask. Has to be sure. So she nods.

"Love you."

"Oh, girl." She feels him smile again, and he’s warm around her, all around her, and this is their place. Just theirs. For now.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Yeah, me too."

_Me too._


End file.
